Yazour and Eilin, side by side, took up station at the island end of the bridge. The Phaerie steeds were very close now. “But there are only two of them,” Eilin said in puzzled tones. “This doesn’t look like an invasion. What in the name of perdition does Hellorin think he’s playing at?”
Yazour was feeling a little ashamed of his earlier panic. When he saw the first outriders, he hadn’t waited to count heads—he had simply assumed that an attack was under way. “Could it be some kind of trick?” he suggested.—And then, on the wind, came the sound of voices calling their names.—D’arvan dismounted a little stiffly, almost sorry that this amazing ride through the skies was over. For a brief time, he had come to fully understand why his father was so desperate to keep his Xandim steeds. Then all such thoughts were lost as Eilin ran across the bridge to embrace him. “D’arvan,” she cried. “Thank all the Gods—you’re safe.” She clutched at his tunic, her fingers knotting in the fabric. “Did Aurian come back with you?” she asked him eagerly. “Why isn’t she with you? Is she all right?”
“As far as I know,” D’arvan told her. “She did come back with me, but I had to leave her in Nexis.” Feeling Eilin’s shoulders droop with disappointment, he added quickly, “She had the two cats with her, though. Shia is a formidable creature, and she would never let Aurian come to any harm.”
Beyond the two Magefolk, Yazour was greeting Parric with delight. Suddenly there was a wild neighing, and the door of Eilin’s tower burst open. There was a thunder of hooves across tile wooden bridge as Iscalda came hurtling across to rub necks with Schiannath, her brother.
“Well, there’s a happy reunion,” said D’arvan. He couldn’t suppress a grin of secret delight. “I think I can improve matters, however....” He fingered the talisman that hung on a silver chain around his neck. The gleaming, polished stone at its center felt warm to his touch, and shone with a misty grey light, like the sun glinting through a fall of silvery rain. His father had given it to him just before his departure, and it was imbued with Old Magic, the essence and core of Hellorin’s power. Clutching at the Forest Lord’s gift, D’arvan felt the magic running through him, so strange yet so familiar, as though it had awakened a force in his blood that had long lain dormant and untapped. Taking a deep breath, the Mage unbound the spell that trapped the Xandim in their equine shape.
The change was unexpected. Chiamh, so accustomed now to four legs, suddenly found himself on two. He swayed, staggered—and fell flat on his face. For a long moment he stayed there, his eyes closed, his senses whirling; stunned by a joy too great to be contained. He ran his fingers through the rough grass, feeling the individual texture of each narrow blade with extraordinarily sensitive fingers. He had never expected to be human again. Cautiously, he opened his eyes—and the world sprang at him, rich in color and depth of perception. The balance was simply different, Chiamh thought—better hearing and sense of smell were exchanged for a great improvement in eyesight and touch.
“Chiamh—are you all right?” Yazour and Parric were bending over him, and the Windeye had no idea which one of them had spoken. They both looked equally concerned.
“I couldn’t be better,” he assured them with a grin, as they helped him to his feet. Parric, whose life Chiamh had saved more than once, wrung his hand and clapped him on the shoulder, so hard that Chiamh almost lost his balance again. “By Chathak, but it’s good to have you back, old friend,” he told the Windeye. “Life’s been dull without you.”
“Ah, you just miss being Herdlord,” Chiamh teased him. Nearby, Schiannath and Iscalda were laughing and weeping in each other’s arms. The Windeye turned to D’arvan. “I’ve never met you in my human shape,” he said gravely, “and I know little about you, save that you are a friend of Aurian. But I owe you such gratitude for what you’ve done for myself and these other Xandim....”
Just then, the Windeye was interrupted by the light, quick sound of further footsteps on the bridge. He turned and, to his utter astonishment, saw a little dark-haired boy about five years old, and a large grey wolf. Even though he had changed a great deal, Chiamh still recognized Aurian’s son.
“Why, it’s Wolf,” he shouted in delight. He looked at Yazour in puzzlement.
“But who is the child?”
The child came up and tugged at Yazour’s sleeve. “Dad?” he said.
“What?” Chiamh blurted in utter amazement. “He’s yours?”
Yazour had turned very red. “I. ..”
He looked at the Lady Eilin. “Don’t look at me,” she said. “He’s your friend, you explain. I’m going to have enough difficulty breaking the news to Aurian that she has a brother.”
21
Reunions
The morning was grey, with drifts of fine rain that swept across the Vale on a fitful wind that turned the surface of the lake to roughened pewter. Eilin slipped quietly out of the tower, careful not to make a sound—though the Gods only knew why, she thought wryly. There had been so many tales to tell and plans to be made the previous night, and everyone had gone to bed so late that it had scarcely been worth the trouble. Eilin was the only one who had not slept at all, and now it seemed as though she was the only one stirring in all the world.
As she crossed the exposed span of the bridge, the wind increased in strength.—Eilin tugged at the hood of her brown cloak to stop it blowing back from her face. It was not a morning for walking, but she needed the comfort of her beloved Vale this morning. She had come out to think—but really, there was little to be considered. Yazour would leave this morning with the others—even Wolf and Iscalda. He would head back to his Southlands with Aurian, and she would never see him again. Eilin would be alone once more, as she had been for most of her life. And, just as had happened with Aurian, she would have another child to bring up on her own.
Why? The Magewoman thought despairingly. Why does this keep happening to me?—After Geraint had died, she had refused to even consider the notion of another soulmate in her life. She had never wanted to experience such a loss again—and oh, how right she had been. Yet she had taken to him from the very start—from that very first day, when he had brought back Iscalda and little Wolf, there had been a spark between them—but she should never have let him charm her as he had. It had taken the young warrior a long time—almost two years—to win her over, but by Iriana, he had been persistent! In some ways he’d seemed older than his years—he was strong, capable, and dependable, and always calm in the midst of her storms and doubts—yet in other ways he’d been so young, so full of enthusiasm and joy.... He made me young again, Eilin thought. He gave me back so many of the years I had lost. And she had walked into it with her eyes wide open, had even let herself be lured by the notion of another child....—Oh, Eilin, you fool. You poor, pathetic old fool.
It was too wet and windy for walking. Eilin’s cloak was of little use for keeping out the damp and chill of the morning. She took shelter in the birch grove on the landward side of the bridge, leaning against the solid, comforting bulk of a dripping tree. For the first time she noticed that the leaves were beginning to turn yellow and bronze. Yes, summer was truly at an end.
Well, she had the courage to face her loss. The Gods only knew, she’d had enough practice. She would do nothing to hinder or hold Yazour—he must follow his own path, and go where his heart led him. She had seen his face last night as they had talked with D’arvan, Parric, and the others—seen the struggle that he was trying to hide. He wanted to help Aurian, wanted to be back among the press of events: wanted to go back out into the world, with its excitement and its lures. And who could blame him? Though they had been together for almost ten years now, he was still young enough to want these things.